blisters in the ashtray.....oh.
in a moment the cracks in the walls will devour the figure who sits apparently making jokes and gnawing the skin off his fingertips while the cigarettes burn and i'll find a way, oh, goddamn, yes sure will to avoid this shadow once again for maybe the mind is ready to stop performing the sign language and is bracing itself for a drunken screaming match and it's alright i suppose because i could just leave the diaries in the basement forever and imagine the pages turning brown and wilting in that sour air in that musky cavern that still smells of 1927 and a hundred years of memories are squeezed into the silence that maybe, just maybe, is what calms them as they sit and clutch old photos and cry for years that they will never again live and that thought alone jolts me from a wet-dream to etch itself on the backs of my eyelids lest i forget that it is infact true and that is a tragedy unto itself---------------------but nevermind me, there are feelings that need to be considered tonight and those that smell sweet, that roll around in the morning, nude, and pleased from many nights before...oh jeez, it becomes straps holding me to a cutting board. NO. NO. I CANNOT SEE what's watching me thru the window and it may be an owl--who glares at me as I toss myself into the most realistic (and still creepy) nitemare of my youth and that may have been the point when i realized the full extent of fear and the ice-grip that it performs when one tries to enjoy the contentment of the moment---ooooohhh, scary. scare (e)
yes you heard correctly. the clock has landed on the four. the basement is flooding. there are insects in the margins. the past is drowning painfully.
in a moment the cracks in the walls will devour the figure who sits apparently making jokes and gnawing the skin off his fingertips while the cigarettes burn and i'll find a way, oh, goddamn, yes sure will to avoid this shadow once again for maybe the mind is ready to stop performing the sign language and is bracing itself for a drunken screaming match and it's alright i suppose because i could just leave the diaries in the basement forever and imagine the pages turning brown and wilting in that sour air in that musky cavern that still smells of 1927 and a hundred years of memories are squeezed into the silence that maybe, just maybe, is what calms them as they sit and clutch old photos and cry for years that they will never again live and that thought alone jolts me from a wet-dream to etch itself on the backs of my eyelids lest i forget that it is infact true and that is a tragedy unto itself---------------------but nevermind me, there are feelings that need to be considered tonight and those that smell sweet, that roll around in the morning, nude, and pleased from many nights before...oh jeez, it becomes straps holding me to a cutting board. NO. NO. I CANNOT SEE what's watching me thru the window and it may be an owl--who glares at me as I toss myself into the most realistic (and still creepy) nitemare of my youth and that may have been the point when i realized the full extent of fear and the ice-grip that it performs when one tries to enjoy the contentment of the moment---ooooohhh, scary. scare (e)
yes you heard correctly. the clock has landed on the four. the basement is flooding. there are insects in the margins. the past is drowning painfully.
VIEW 11 of 11 COMMENTS
your phone wasn't 'working'